| I
have recently partaken in an adventure whose utter implausibility
makes its ubiquitous occurrence an absolute marvel. For
me, this little excursion was a first, but there are scads
of people to whom a day without a couple waves is like an
Irishman without a Guinness.
Yes, surfing. Shall we consider the principle of this recreation? One
lies, as though submitting oneself beforehand to the benediction
of the wave gods, prostrate on a one foot wide, eight-twelve
foot long chunk of fiberglass, wood, Styrofoam, or something
else that floats on water (very, very small rocks, gravy…)
and paddles out against the surf. One then sits and watches,
waiting for a space and time suitable to hurling oneself into
the maw of the rumbling creature in hopes of riding it to
shore. Once that wave is chosen, one turns around and lays
back down, butt to the sun, head to the beach, and starts
paddling like the Devil himself were riding the swell. If
the stars align themselves at just the right moment, that
wave breaks and rolls right under the board and one leaps
to stand, practicing a delicate shift of balance and weight,
and glides along the roiling sea water until the wave spends
itself in the shallow rush where children splash and play.
This, my friends is the epitome of cool.
I,
on the other hand, am here to tell you that for most of us
(all right, mostly for me), this picturesque medley of grace,
skill and nature is bollocksty hard to grasp in one afternoon.
Learning
to surf, I now know, requires kind waves, a forgiving board,
patient teachers and understanding locals who are all right
with a bunch of novice rednecks floundering about, missing
waves that they would otherwise have tucked neatly under their
boards and called just one more ride… but let me start
at the beginning, the part where we wax down our surfboards
and pack up the Exploder.
Finally,
after a year and a half of wanting to surf, the heavens conspired
to brew up a fine Saturday in which a random conglomeration
of friends could make a trip out to a conducive beach. We
trucked off and leapt into the fray--once more off to the
beach, dear friends! And, suddenly, I was one of them, one
of those weekend riders flailing my arms and tipping my board
and hanging on for all that my life is worth (not as much
as I had hoped, it turns out) as each swell batted me around
the bay.
First
lesson: paddling. Yes, folks, you would think this would be
a no-brainer, but not for me, oh no--for me, just paddling
is like a monkey doing a math problem. Just as I thought
I had mastered the art of moving in a forward direction--away
from shore--I would wobble (weebles wobble but they sure as
hell don’t surf) precariously and slide off one side
or the other of the board, bruising my hip bones horrifyingly
in the process.
Finally, I sat out where those long-sought waves broke, and
there I sat, and I sat some more, trying to figure out how
to turn back around again. You can only hear someone tell
you so many times to move your feet like an eggbeater before
you start searching for an alternative method. So, another
goodly amount of time was given over to turning the hell back
around so’s just to be facing the right way to actually
catch the damn waves!
And
then, once turned around, you have to paddle again in order
to get INTO the wave--ER? Shouldn’t the wave just pick
you up and carry you? Evidently, this is not the case for
I spent yet another hour trying to master the paddling toward
the shore. First, I wasn’t arching up enough; then,
I was arching back too far. And the end result of all
of these contortions was a bruised sternum and a brush-burned
gut. But once I got just the right arch in my back, there
I was body-boarding and one step closer to actually surfing.
However,
the fun does not end there because, even for me, your friendly
neighborhood athlete to whom snow and skateboards are no mystery,
the move from gliding toward shore laying down is not just
a small step but a huge leap from planting on the board and
stylishly riding it home. To save you the nail biting, I’ll
just tell you that I did finally get my feet on that damn
board. I spent only seconds upright, once doing a full on
face plant right over the nose of the board and once missing
the rail by millimeters and taking a first-class digger off
the side, but, by cracky, I was close! And close is where
I have had to leave it for now.
We
left the beach that day, ocean streaming from our nostrils
and bruises darkening on ribs, knees and other protuberances,
salt drying in our hair and shoulders numb from two hours
of maneuvering just to get out to the waves. Hot damn!
When’s the next trip? |
